Art is a mutual friend

Yes, everyone’s a writer, but whether the hand shows the abuse of time and has kissed its dexterity goodbye — or the pen stumbles clumsily under the reign of fingers that haven’t yet probed rouge cheekbones and constellations — it speaks its own language.

No one will ever match the honey in the landscapes that evolve behind her teeth. Or the ash in his rhythm, how he speaks of death like a familiar peach tree.

Yes, everyone’s a writer, but each tongue tastes and tells differently.

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